A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

Emma's breasts strained the seams of her bodice with every rapid breath.

"You take control, Emma," he whispered. The words tick­led her ear, he spoke them so close. Shivers raced down her neck, down her chest and her belly. "Take control of me. Come to me." Her neck arched, wanting his mouth to bite her. "If you do, Emma, I may give you what you want. Or I may offer more than you can handle.

"Risk. That's what you like, isn't it? So play with fire. Play with me."

She was shaking, trembling, just as he'd wanted. His breath grew warmer, closer, till his lips must touch her and still they didn't. His mouth hovered just over the skin of her temple, and then he sighed out a secret wish.

"Order me to my knees, Emma."

She sobbed and grabbed blindly for the doorknob. When she slipped under his arm, Hart let her go without a word.

Cheers erupted from the small crowd around her, and Emma made herself smile. She'd tried to relax into the chair, recapture her careless persona, but her body was rebelling. Every few minutes she'd find herself perched on the edge of the cushion, back straight and screaming of tension.

It didn't help that she'd just bet on a third game of bil­liards. She had no idea how to play, and so she was forced to watch and depend on others for her luck. She hated depend­ing on others.

Shifting in her seat, Emma ran a hand over the hard line of her corset. The motion drew the attention of at least one pair of eyes. The nape of her neck burned with awareness.

Emma scowled. She wouldn't turn around to look, but he was there. Lounging against the wall, receiving obse­quious admiration from the people who hovered near. And keeping himself in her thoughts.

Retiring to bed would be worse, of course. And there was nothing else to bloody well do, because one billiard game had tumbled into a full damned tournament among the male guests. Most of them, anyway. Somerhart was far too digni­fied to participate. Dignified. Ha.

Order me to my knees. He'd purposefully titillated her. Aroused her. Stuck himself like a burr beneath her skullcap.

Lord Marsh, who'd already been knocked out of play, sidled closer to her chair and laid an arm across the high back. "Lady Denmore, I congratulate you. Your luck has im­proved."

"Mr. Jones is offering tips."

"Helpful pup, that one."

Emma stared silently at the players. Her limbs ached with the desire to leap up and try her hand at the game. It didn't look all that difficult, but she knew it must take subtle skill. It couldn't possibly be as simple as it seemed.

"Lady Denmore . . ." Marsh angled his head closer, though he avoided the appearance of intimacy by keeping his eyes on the billiard table. "I think it only fair to warn you—you being new to our society—that Somerhart is not known for his—"

A bowing footman intruded and Marsh straightened away from her. Emma didn't care. She didn't need additional warnings. She could barely heed her own.

"My lady," the footman said, offering a letter on a silver tray. Emma glanced around before she realized he spoke to her.

"Me?" How odd. It certainly wasn't a proposal of assig­nation, which might be expected from one of several dif­ferent gentlemen here; the scrawled writing indicated it had come from London.

She stared at it, a bit dumbfounded, as the servant re­treated. There was no one outside these walls who'd write her letters. Too uncertain to open it in front of others, Emma rose and made for the door.

She wondered if Somerhart followed her, and the idea pushed her faster but also sent an unwelcome thrill down her spine. Insidious plague of a man.

Emma ducked around the corner of the massive front staircase and took a deep breath of lemon-scented air. Her childhood home had smelled of lemon polish too, before her mother's death. Afterward, it had smelled mostly of stale to­bacco.

The unmarked seal gave way with a sharp crack. Emma recognized the choppy writing and uncertain spelling with a glance. Bess.

Her pulse quickened, then flooded to a drumbeat as she deciphered the message. A thief. A broken window. Nothing missing. Nothing missing. An extremely inefficient thief then. Or no thief at all.

Matthew, damn him for a determined pest. It had to be him, or some lackey of his, trying to find proof of her identity.

What could she do? Nothing from here, certainly. She had to return to London and try to fight him, but with what?

Her heart boomed against her throat, choking her. She only needed a few more weeks. If she could bribe him or convince him that she'd return to Cheshire and consider marriage. . .

Or maybe it was time to give up. If she were arrested, all her money would be eaten up in bribes and solicitor's fees. But she didn't have enough yet. What would've been the point of all this, of risking everything, if she left in the same position she'd been in before? A thousand pounds would sup­port her a few good years, but she had no skill, no income, and absolutely no intention of depending on another.

She needed the rest of the money.